48 Hours on Blue Bayou Pt. 38: Three

Master Martin has noticed a problem with the traveller, which lowers and hoists the sail; it appears to be jammed and, though it's not a major problem at the moment, we would not be able to reef the sail, for example, if the wind was too strong, so he tells me to take the rudder as well as work the sheets and stands on the gunwale trying to free it up. This manoeuvre makes the boat rather unstable. After my prior thoughts, it occurs to me that I could easily push him off and sail away to freedom.

Of course, it would not be quite so simple. I know that Hong Kong is not a large territory, but all around is China, and I have no money, no passport, only a story that seems, on the face of it, pretty unbelievable.

I know that, even if I got that far, my Master would soon find out, and his influence would quickly have me back. Then, what would happen to me? It makes me shudder even to think about. Besides, I realise that I have this huge inner conflict. I would love to go back to my former life, especially to see my family and friends, but somehow I also find that I want to stay here with the most magnetic man I can imagine.

Suddenly, and possibly because of my day dreaming inattention to the conditions, a sharp gust causes the little yacht, already unstable, to heel over. Master is tossed into the bay.

I don't even think.

Automatically, I turn into the wind, losing momentum. I push the rudder over and drag the boom in, going about. Going back to pick up my Owner. Now, I have a moment to consider why I haven't made a bid for freedom. It's not simply a conditioned reflex, to pick up a fellow sailor overboard. I know I have made the right choice — not that there was any deliberation — I know, with a certainty that is brand new, I couldn't bear to be parted from my Master. That my place is here. I know, too, that I can achieve a higher status by focusing on my Master's needs.

As the sail fills again, Master is soon alongside, scrambling into the cockpit, water streaming off him. It all happens in about thirty seconds.

"That was quick," he grins, "I hardly had time to get wet."

Guiltily, I reply, "Oh, Master, I'm so sorry. I was watching you and not paying attention to the conditions."

"Well, sometimes I like being watched. I'll take the tiller now, if you'll go forward."

As I crawl past him, he puts a hand on my thigh. "That really was good sailing. You may have one Attaboy."

There is not far to go to shore. As we close on the beach, I jump out to lighten the bow and start to heave the dinghy up to the beach. Master follows immediately and together we pull her up above the waterline. Master lets go the sail and I move to unrig the mast, but Master says, "Don't bother, the club staff will take care of it."

We retire to the gear room to get changed. As we strip off, I notice Master's cock is a bit downcast. He must be quite cold by now, so our nudity is non-sexual. I hand him a towel I find under the bench and he hands me his dripping shorts and shirt in exchange.

"Hang them out, in the boathouse. You'll find a rope strung up under the rafters."

By the time I am back in my office attire, Master has dried off and dressed as well.

"I think I could use a stiff drink, after that. Come, there's a bar upstairs."

Master takes me into the club bar, and selects a table with a view.

"Sit on the chair," he whispers in my ear.

He orders a Gin and Tonic and Lime and Soda for me. Slaves don't get alcohol! Buuut, he lets me have a sip of his.

An elderly sailor, white-bearded, comes into the club and orders a beer at the bar. When it's poured, he comes over to our table.

"Dave," he says, and offers his hand. He's Australian or New Zealander by his accent.

"Martin," Master says and accepts his handshake.

"I saw you come in just now and your little upset offshore." To me, "That was good sailing."

He looks quizzically at me. Obviously, I should introduce myself, but I can't say my name is "Three," can I? Think. Quickly.

"I'm Mary. Aussie or Kiwi?"

"Hah! All Irish girls are called 'Mary,' aren't they? I'm a Kiwi, but I've lived in Oz quite a bit. And what do you do in Hong Kong"

"Just slavin' for this fella."

He laughs, Master laughs, we laugh, all three.

Oops! That just popped out. I think I'm in trouble now. Though Master laughed, I saw, for a split second, another emotion flash over his face. Was it anger, or disappointment?

"She's a star in our Marketing Department and works very hard — including lots of overtime," he calmly states.

"Well," he says to me, "if he takes you out sailing of an afternoon, it can't be that bad."

"Don't take me literally. I really do enjoy my job." That was at least partly for my Master.

Master asks him casually about his boat, and he's away! It's obviously a topic he can expound on for hours. They chat on about boats and sailing, navigation and the dangers of oblivious Container ships. I don't have to contribute much as I'm well out of my depth (metaphorically, but I hope not literally). I'm nervous about what the consequences of my quip might be.

Night Manoeuvres

We return to Enterprises HQ by a more direct route, and a staff member is on hand to garage the car, while Master and I are hoisted once more up to his office. His mood seems still relaxed, making small talk about the afternoon. In the foyer, I am steered away by a slave, who says she is called Fifteen. She has yet another change of outfit for me. A wrap-around dress, in bright orange, with a low cut bodice, emphasising my breasts. Fifteen helps me out of my erstwhile boardroom attire and into this new outfit. It fastens on either side and has a sash tie. The skirt is about knee length (to facilitate kneeling?) and is cut away on either side, so that it flies away from my legs as I walk.

It is definitely evening wear, and I expect, indeed hope, that Master will want to take it off me before the night is over. Actually though, he will probably make me take it off myself. Dinner comes first. Fifteen guides me to Master's dining room, where he is waiting for me.

"My dear, you look simply delicious. And Chef's dinner is always delicious, but Chef is a law unto himself, so let's find out what he is offering tonight."

Master shows me to a kneeling pad at the table. His chair is next to it. When we are seated, or rather when Master is seated and I am kneeling by his side, the first course arrives, brought in by a kitchen slave. It is a kind of salad of vegetable strips and herbs, glistening with a sauce. I can recognize carrot and red beet, but there are others I can't identify. There is only one plate, which is well-filled. From the experience of lunch, I gather that Master will feed me from his plate. Oddly enough, the prospect of hand feeding makes me feel specially privileged, rather than, as I think I should feel, annoyed.

Master hands me a large napkin. "To preserve your dress," he remarks.

A forkful of salad appears in front of me and I open my mouth to take it in. The salad is crunchy, piquant and refreshing, with a dressing that is sweet and tart and salty all at once. There are so many flavours, but they work together stimulating the appetite. Master alternatively eats and feeds me, chatting about the afternoon while I eat.

The next course comprises strips of tender, grilled lamb on a bed of thick creamy sauce and garnished with toasted pine nuts, parsley, mint and a spicy lemony sauce. Master has to employ fork and spoon to deliver my portions. I don't know exactly what the sauce is, but it is garlicky and delicious. Master has a generous glass of Rosé; I have water.

Dessert is different, because I get my own plate, probably because it is rather sticky: two baked pastry rolls, stuffed with almond and pistachio paste and covered with a honey glaze. Even though I have my own serving, I make sure to wait for Master's smile and nod before I start.

Finally, the kitchen slave clears the table and brings steaming towels, for us to clean our fingers. Master has pushed his chair around to face me, and takes me by the hand. He asks me, "How did you enjoy the meal?"

"I think it was the most delicious combination I have ever eaten," I reply. "Master, I would very much like to give my appreciation to Chef."

"Shall we do that together?"

He stands, and I also rise. We make our way to the kitchen where Chef presides over his staff, now engaged in clean up. Martin applauds and I curtsy. Chef makes a deep bow in return. I ask Chef about the meal. "Chef, it was so delicious, but unlike anything I have had before. Please tell me, what were the ingredients?"

I can tell that Chef is pleased by my enjoyment and my question, as he explains that the flavours are all Middle Eastern. What I called a "creamy sauce" is hummus, made of Chick Peas and Sesame paste, lemon and garlic. The herb mixture is called Za'atar, hyssop in English, and mixed with toasted sesame, sumac and salt.

Master takes me by the hand and leads me back through the dining room and into another room, which is set up as a living room, with large and lush looking couches upholstered in soft white leather, a huge Persian rug and the expected appliances, television, CD player, a liquor cabinet. Master relaxes into a sofa while I stand and gape at the scene.

"Master, may I?" I venture, tentatively.

"Yes, take a look around, while I look at you."

In many ways, I think, it resembles a typical bachelor's apartment. There are very few ornaments, and those there are seem more like mementos of his past, rather than decorations. There are pictures on the walls, mainly sports photographs, of baseball, which I know almost nothing about. I notice some yachting photos, which look like racing shots and one of a boy standing beside a dinghy. As I look closer, I'm sure it is the Master, as a boy.

"Yes, that is me, aged ten."

Of course, he has been watching me taking in his room, as if he has given me licence to know him better. Then I notice a group of paintings, one of which, though small, stands out. A young woman, or girl, in a bath.

"Master, is that really a Bonnard?"

"I believe it is. Do you know about art?"

"Not really, Master. I studied some Art History and my sister was always crazy about paintings, so she had lots of art books."

"I bought it at a small auction in Belgium, because it appealed to me. A collector friend assured me it was genuine. But you sound surprised?"

I can't help a cheeky grin. "I thought you might have a much larger nude on your wall, Master."

He laughs. "I prefer my nudes life size, and alive. Speaking of which, I observe that you are overdressed."

"Shall I take something off?" He nods.

No further orders are needed for me to begin a mentally rehearsed striptease. Untying the sash, I begin a routine of twirls which make the skirts fly out, revealing long expanses of leg, but not yet my sex. My dress is still closed by a couple of hooks, releasing one allows me to expose one breast. On the next turn, releasing the other lets the dress fall open.

I'm not ready to show him everything yet, so I turn my back letting the dress slide off my shoulders. I slowly turn holding the folds over my legs. I let him gaze for a few moments on my breasts, before I relax my arms letting the dress slide slowly to the floor. Lastly I kneel down, legs parted, hands behind my back, head bowed. This position is known as The Captive's Submission.

"Bravo!" says Master. I daringly raise my eyes to his.

"I believe I need a stiff drink after that. There's whisky in the cabinet, one inch and three ice cubes."

I make his drink, first tidying up the dress I may never see again and placing it on a cabinet top. I ponder that Master must be pleased to be served by a naked slave girl. I kneel as I bring it, offering it up with both hands. Master takes it from my grasp and leans back on the cushions.

"Sometimes, we allow our pets on the furniture."

I slither up beside him and rest my head on his shoulder. Master strokes my arm as he sips his whisky. "That was very sexy, did you practice the routine?"

"No, Master, but I sort of thought what I might do." He pokes a finger into his glass, and I realise he is going to feed me a drop of whisky. I poke out my tongue to receive it, and suck on his finger, relishing the sharp smokey flavour. Slaves don't get alcohol, except maybe homeopathic quantities.

"It's time," he says, parking his glass, "to move to the bedroom."

He rises and I follow into his private room. "At your first service, you were delivered naked, and Julie assisted; do you understand what to do now?"

I try to remember if Julie undressed him. I was pretty much concentrating on keeping calm. I realise the "understand" question is my opportunity.

"Master, I am not sure. I expect you want me to undress you."

"That is correct," he smiles. "I'll let you decide how to proceed."

Without haste or delay, I start with his shoes and socks, then, stroking and teasing his body as I go, move up to remove his shirt, folding it carefully, then, recalling my first night with Master Hari, and knowing there is still a reckoning to come for my careless words in the bar, I remove his belt and present it to him.

He smiles and keeps hold of it, as I draw down his trousers, finishing with his shorts, already distorted by his erection. When it is released, I kiss and nuzzle the crown, gently stroking the scrotum, then work my way back up to his chest and neck. My excitement is building with an added frisson of fear of the belt.

Both naked, he sets aside the belt, engulfs me with his arms, hands roaming freely over my back and buttocks, his cock pulsing against my belly.

A firm command. "Kneel up on the bed."

I climb up and kneel, knees well apart, arched back and arms tucked into my hips. He joins me instantly, his knees tucked between mine, his hands running lightly at first, then more insistently over my breasts, belly, and down to my cunt. He finds my nub already engorged and coaxes it to even greater excitement. Dipping into my canal, he spreads the growing lubrication around. His penetrating fingers find the spot that makes me gasp and shiver.

"Do you remember The Wheel," he murmurs.

"Yes, Master, one of theTaoist positions." I bend down, my spine curving up, looking back through my parted thighs. I can see his cock questing for my cunt. The sight of him approaching, then nudging at me, is immensely exciting. He is taking me, my Master and Owner.

How did the Sexual Arts instructor put it? Yes. The Jade Dragon seeks shelter in his Moon Grotto.

Now he is fully seated, moving slowly and confidently within me. My arousal is growing and I fight for control of my building orgasm. A pressure on my flanks directs me to move upright, my back pressing against his. His mouth is on my neck, his breath tickles my ear.

My full weight is pressed down on his member, so I must take up the rhythm, rising and falling in our mutual movements while his hands can reach both breast and clit.

"Permission!" I gasp.

"Wait for me." How can he sound so calm? I can barely believe it.

Impaled on his staff I work him frantically until I feel his release. At last, I am free to give rein to my own orgasm. With a series of moans and yelps, I surrender to pleasure, collapsing against my Master as, still locked together, we both topple over on the bed. This is the best, and most exhausting, sex I can ever remember. No wonder they call it the little death.

In the heat of climax, I have forgotten to breathe and now I am panting, sucking air into my lungs, and I can hear that Master is also breathing heavily. After a couple of minutes I have recovered enough to attend to Master's package, which, for the first time, I really want to do, while he strokes my back.

"Let's nap a while." Master says, and I spoon up to him. He takes a breast in one hand. What am I now, I wonder. A slave, certainly. A concubine? Perhaps. Even if I am only a pet, I am, right now, a contented one.

Consequences

I wake up. Soft light suffuses the space. Where am I? The room is large and the bed soft. There's someone sleeping beside me.

Of course, it's Master Martin, who has let me sleep all night in his bed. I feel a shiver of pleasure, that he trusts me enough to sleep beside me. Normally, security would demand a slave be directed back to her dormitory, or wherever else she was kept. In the dim light I can see that someone has brought my collar from Master's office and placed it on the table by the bed. It gives me a sense of foreboding, thinking that there must be something else coming down the track, most probably some correction for my tongue.

What must I do? I cuddle up to him and he stirs slightly and moves his leg over mine. I can feel his erection — I hope he was dreaming of me ― and it occurs to me that probably the best way to wake up, for a man, is with his morning erection being tenderly attended to by his slave's mouth.

Carefully, I disentangle myself and dive under the sheet. He is naked, as I am, so there is no trouble finding his tumescent flesh. How can it be so hard and soft at the same time? I wet my lips, lick the tip and ease it into my mouth in an act of loving submission that once would have had me gagging, but now seems so natural.

After a few tongue swirls and some friction his legs open a little. Is he awake? I cradle his balls in one hand and continue stroking. I can hear his regular breathing so I continue.

Suddenly, a hand grasps my thigh and I freeze.

A sleepy voice murmurs, "Do carry on."

So I start up a slow rhythm, that will prolong the time and intensity of his sensation, until a gentle tug on my hair tells me stop. I let him slide out of my mouth. Turning, I kneel up.

"Master?"

For long seconds he gazes at me, as I adjust my posture for maximum display, knees parted, breasts thrust forward.

"What a beautiful sight."

Now, I am practically purring, when unexpectedly he grabs me between the legs! Surprised, I shriek, and rear back. Master springs up, with amazing athleticism, and captures me with his arms, pinning mine to my side. His knee is between my knees and I can feel his penis on my thigh, his face has a wicked grin as it advances towards me. I open my mouth as his descends on me, taking his urgent kisses.

We topple over giggling, as he moves on top of me, forcing my legs apart. I spread as wide as I can and wrap them around his back. He enters me with a sigh and moves with intensity and purpose. I start to say something. Was it Master or Martin? But he puts his hand over my mouth and uses me hard, until his ejaculation releases the tension. I have not been satisfied, but I am also secretly pleased by his passion.

He rolls off me and stretches out on his back. I move to perform my cleaning duty. When I have finished he sits up on the edge of the bed and indicates I should kneel on the floor.

"Three, I am immensely pleased with your performance, both in the bedroom and the boardroom, not to mention on the water. From what I have seen and what I have heard, you have done your recent duties with skill, creativity and enthusiasm. You have had some of the rewards of a favoured slave, and you will have more."

That sounds good, but he pauses.

"However, you have failed in one respect. Do you know what it is?"

How quickly the mood has changed. Now I know the meaning of the word "masterful." I fall down with my head on the floor and sob. "Yes, Master."

"Tell me."

"Master, I referred to my slavery in public. I thoughtlessly betrayed your trust in my behaviour and possibly endangered you and all of The Enterprises' people."

"You are quite correct. Though the reference was oblique, and it passed as a joke, it was impermissible."